Seren was fifteen, only two weeks shy of her sixteenth birthday, when the sky took her father.
The wind on the Skycliff keened like a wounded creature, tearing at her mourning shroud. The indigo fabric snapped around her legs, silver embroidery catching the stormlight. Her bare feet pressed into the cold stone, grounding her as the world shifted beneath her.
Below, the funeral pyre burned on a suspended platform of woven sky‑iron chains. Flames of blue and silver licked at the air, rising toward the heavens. The scent of burning cedar and stormbloom petals drifted upward, clinging to her skin.
Her father’s skyglass bead—once bright—now dimmed to a dull gray.
He was gone.
And he had died after her birthday celebration had already been planned. He’d promised to take her flying on Veyrix’s migration path. He’d promised to teach her the next stormweaver’s chant. He’d promised he’d be there.
He broke every promise.
Seren’s throat tightened. “Why did you leave me?” she whispered. “You said you’d never fly without me.”
The wind swallowed her words.
She squeezed her eyes shut, and the memory came unbidden—her father’s last moments.
The storm had come out of nowhere—violent, unnatural, the kind that made even seasoned skyfarers whisper prayers. Seren had been at his bedside for days, watching the fever take him, watching the lightning flicker beneath his skin.
“Papa,” she whispered, clutching his hand. “Stay with me. Please.”
Caelen’s breaths were shallow, his once-strong chest rising only slightly beneath the blankets. His hair—dark and streaked with silver—was damp with sweat. His stormweaver’s sigil glowed faintly on his forearm.
He opened his eyes, pale blue and soft with love. “Little storm,” he rasped, “don’t cry.”
“I’m not,” she lied, tears slipping down her cheeks.
He lifted a trembling hand to brush them away. “You were born of lightning. You don’t break.”
“But I am breaking,” she whispered. “I can’t lose you.”
He smiled weakly. “You won’t. I’ll be in every storm. Every gust of wind. Every spark you
feel in your bones.”
A violent tremor shook the tower. The storm outside roared.
Caelen’s eyes flickered toward the window. “It’s calling,” he murmured. “The Veil… it’s calling me home.”
Seren clutched his hand tighter. “Don’t go.”
He exhaled slowly, painfully. “Seren… listen to me. You must be careful. Your power… it’s—”
His body seized. Lightning arced across his skin.
“Papa!” Seren screamed.
Elira rushed in, her face pale. “Seren, step back!”
“No!”
Caelen’s eyes locked onto Seren’s one last time. “You are more than they know,” he whispered. “More than they fear.”
Then the light left his eyes.
The storm outside died with him.
Seren always felt protected and safe with her father there, like she could do anything! Now that she was gone it felt like her wings had been clipped. Who would keep her safe now?
He left her with so many unanswered questions. What was he trying to tell her about her powers? What did he mean when he said they feared her? Who was the ‘they’ he was referring to?